Pensieve
by VKlepto
Summary: When Harry came to McGonagall looking for a way to better understand the mentor he never really knew, she thought it was a bad idea from the moment he stepped into her office. Post-series, McGonagall-centric. Featuring AD, HP, RW, HG, and TR.
1. In which a proposition is made

_**A/N:** This will be set a couple of years after the golden trio leaves Hogwarts. This is largely about McGonagall. HP, RW, HG, AD, GW, and TR will figure greatly along with a few other guest appearances. Ships will include but are not limited to HPGW, RWHG, MMAD, and MMTR.  
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_**Disclaimer:** I'm a starving student studying writing. Basically, I'm starving in school in order to become a starving artist. I have no money. Actually, I think my bank account is in the red right now. Don't bother suing me; you'll get naught but pocket lint.  
_

_**For readers of my other chapter stories:** I'll say this quickish: Cat and Mouse, Spectrum, and Seven will all be updated. I'm neither abandoning nor putting anything on hold. It's simply a matter of what I feel like writing, and much as I'd love to update all day everyday for you lovely folks, the nitty-gritty truth is that I write for me. This idea just occurred to me during a conversation over coffee with a friend- but all the best ones do. The reason I'm putting this up now instead of waiting until I finish my other longer stories (specifically Cat and Mouse) is so that I can hopefully lure anybody following that story to follow this one... I'm diabolical. Anyway, don't be too mad, lovers.  
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* * *

"Please, Professor?"

It occurred to her that she ought to tell them to call her Minerva, and if not, at least Ms. McGonagall, or something less stilted sounding, especially coming out if Harry's distinctly grown-up mouth. However, she liked order and, despite her fondness for the triage of Gryffindors before her, needed distance. A verbal proscenium seemed so very Minerva; she could almost see Dumbledore's smirk in her mind's eye. She glanced up at him briefly before looking back down to the letter she was scribbling to the Minister. "I don't know, Mr. Potter. I don't think it's a good idea."

Harry frowned, looking at Hermione beside him, as though looking to her to defend him. She merely fiddled with the sleeve of her robes, however, raising her thick eyebrows, seeming to imply that this was his battle and his alone. Minerva smirked, careful not to look up and give herself away- Hermione and Ron would follow The-Boy-Who-Lived to the ends of the earth, to the hellish bowels of battle, but argue for something so silly as this? Stand up to their former head of house? Clearly not. "The Ministry's records, however awful they are, say that Dumbledore left you his pensieve." Minerva sniffs, neither confirming nor denying his statement. "He must have left some memories behind."

"Unfortunately, the Ministry confiscated any memory that would be significant to you, in your quest to 'get to know him'. I have but a handful of moments that Professor Dumbledore had the foresight to deliver to me prior to his death. These are, however, more or less... unimportant. I have but the pensieve itself."

"I couldn't have even a peek?"

"I'm telling you," McGonagall said, sounding more serious than she felt, "you will learn nothing from them." She drummed her fingers against her desk, peering over her spectacles at Ron, who squirmed and looked away. He was still lanky and coltish, even in adulthood, and his eyes, like Hermione's, were fixed on Harry. Harry himself looked as though he were trying to hide his disappointment and failing quite miserably. Mineerva sighed, biting her lips lightly. She _was_ fond of them, Harry in particular, though she was hard-pressed to show it. She hated to disappoint him so. But she certainly couldn't show him the memories Albus had left her, not only in order to maintain her own privacy, but also out of respect for Harry himself- she would bet her last galleon that he would be more than a little unhappy if he knew the true content of the memories she had... "However..."

Harry's eyes jerked upward to her own.

"If you are really determined to do this, I might prepare some of my own memories for your viewing. If you were to come back next Tuesday..."

She didn't get to finish, as Harry had shot to his feet, a grin immediately in place on his features. "Yes! Great! Thank you, Professor!" Ron and Hermione echoed his gratitude as the three filed toward the door like students after the bell.

"Mr. Potter?"

"Yes?" Harry responded, poking his shaggy head back within the office.

"He would be touched at your efforts," she said, and Harry reddened slightly. "However, it would be best if I warned you ahead of time- Albus was a man of many faces. You may not find them all to your liking." She was almost surprised by her own words. Though she and the Headmaster had been exceptionally close, though she had been privy to more information, more thoughts behind his actions than any other Order member, she had not always found his rationales satisfactory. She would need more hands if she were to count on her fingers all of the times she had left his office in horror.

Harry nodded. He left swiftly, descending the stairs on Ron's heels. The moment they stepped out from behind the gargoyle and into the Hogwarts hallways, Harry had to resist the urge to pump his fist triumphantly in the air. "This is great," he said instead, grinning.

"I suppose so," responded Hermione, looking thoughtful as her pace quickened and she strode ahead of the boys.

"She doesn't like this," Harry said, more to himself than to Ron. Ron shook his head.

"No. She thinks that if McGonagall isn't sure about you doin' this, you shouldn't. I'm bloody curious, though," Ron told Harry, "powerful, famous wizard like Dumbledore? Life like that, life that _long_? Bet there are all kinds of skeletons you can dig up."

"I'm not trying to dig up skeletons, Ron. I'm trying to get to know him. He was," Harry paused, running a hand through his unruly hair and bobbing his head at a group of first years, who stumbled away in a fit of starstruck giggles, "like a father, y'know? Like a grandfather. And toward the end of the war, I realized he knew me better than anyone. But I don't know the first thing about him."

"Still," Ron said with a grin, "wonder what McGonagall will come up with. I heard Kingsley saying she was a right piece when they were in Hogwarts... wouldn't mind seeing some of _those_ memories..."


	2. In which something aches

_**A/N: **Short and expositionish. Don't mind the shoddy writing. Uh, please.  
_

* * *

"Are you sure this is advisable, Minerva?"

"If Mr. Potter wishes to get to know the man who so shaped his life, so be it."

"My concern is not for Harry, my dear."

She raised a brow.

"Revisiting memories thoroughly enough to extract them, examining them enough to find what you wish... I doubt it will be pleasant for you."

"I'm not so frail as that," she said sharply, but that she looked away told him more than any admission could. "I'll survive, leastways."

"Of that I have no doubt. I would just query whether or not it would just be simpler for him to talk to me."

Minerva stood from her office chair, looking very weary as she sighed and responded, "he doesn't quite understand the nature of portraits. He doesn't like talking to you in this manner. Besides, memories are far more... tangible."

There was a pause as she began to pack a stack of papers into her bag.

"And you, my dear?"

"And I _what_?"

"Do _you_ mind speaking to my portrait?"

Her face clouded. "Albus..." she murmured, slinging the bag over her thin shoulders and moving forward to press the tips of her fingers against the canvas, meeting his hand as he lifted it, as though he would break the boundaries of his painted world. "It is a necessary evil."

"But it _is_ evil, then."

"It hurts. You must under—"

"I do," he said, his painted gaze leveling with hers over the spider-web thin sketching of his half-moon spectacles. "Alas, I understand perfectly."

Her face crumbled a little—the immovable visage of Professor McGonagall slipping into an expression of pain and dismay for the brief moment before she withdrew her hand as though burned, and turned away from the portrait, moving to leave the office and disappearing behind the door her private chambers.

"I will see you tomorrow, Minerva."

_And the day after that, and the day after that... _If she hadn't been infamous for her careful control, and wary of what anyone in earshot may have thought, she would have screamed.

* * *

Dumbledore's portrait watched silently that Monday evening as Minerva began the painstaking process of removing memories and placing them in the pensieve. After about an hour of mere observation, he could resist no longer. "What are you planning on showing to him, Minerva?"

"This and that," she responded, placing her wand in the depths of the pensieve. "Right now I'm concentrating on removing the memories I don't want him to see, just to be sure I do not make a mistake tomorrow."

"Ah," answered Dumbledore. He fell silent once more as Minerva continued to draw memory after memory from her mind and into the pensieve. By the time she had stopped, it was brimming with scintillating, dancing silver that highlighted the sharp angles of her face as she peered over it. "Have you finished?"

"I believe so," she responded, sounding distant. "I think I might..."

"Minerva-"

Before the portrait could get a full warning out, Minerva had leaned forward and entered into the pensieve. Dumbledore's portrait furrowed his silvery brow.

An hour or so later, Minerva moved away from the pensieve stoically, her face tight and her lips pulled into a taut frown. Dumbledore's portrait said something over her shoulder, but she lifted a hand in a motion of dismissal, the other patting absently at her bun as she retreated into her private quarters, leaving Dumbledore's portrait to query only the echoing click-click-click of her shoes.

The portrait wondered whether or not he should visit his portrait in her private quarters and remind her that Harry was going to be coming early the following morning, but decided against it. Even as a painting- or perhaps especially as a painting- Dumbledore knew when he was not welcome.

"Cat got her tongue?" called Fortescue's portrait with a wheezing laugh.

"Don't be foolish, Fortescue," scolded Dilys with a roll of her eyes. "Something obviously upset the headmistress." Her beady eyes turned in the direction of Dumbledore's portrait where it sat behind McGonagall's desk. "Dumbledore, have you any idea...?"

"Yes."

"Well, out with it, Albus!" cried Dippet, as usual fractionally more excited than he ought to be. Albus had always found him rather silly.

"Reliving things that will never again be aches," Dumbledore answered, in a typically cryptic manner. Had a human been in the room as the portraits continued to wheedle Dumbledore for more concrete information, they may have noted the mistiness that overcame his pale eyes and wondered if, in addition to being charmed with the deceased's personality, they also had their memories, too.

* * *

Ginny folded her arms across her chest, frowning at Harry across the table. "I don't understand."

"I know that. But it's something I just have to do." Harry responded, shoving breakfast into his mouth in heaping forkfuls, clearly in a hurry to leave. Ginny had shown up on his doorstep earlier enough to wake him up. She had delivered the message that Hermione would meet he and Ron at Hogwarts rather than at the flat Harry and Ron shared. When she had elected to stay with Harry instead of immediately returning to the Burrow, Ron had withdrawn to his room. Although Ron had long since come to terms with the fact that Harry and Ginny were dating, he still didn't like to be around them when they were together. Harry couldn't quite blame him.

"You're going to dig up all your horrible memories, all of the bad things, the war—"

"Gin, I just—"

"I don't want you broken again, is all," she said sharply, in that instant reminding him very much of Mrs. Weasley. He sighed and reached across the table. She grabbed his hand and stroked the back lightly with her thumb, her eyes following the motion. "After the trials, I was afraid I'd lose you. When the Ministry gave you those awards, you went away again. Every time you revisit it, you slip away, and every time I'm afraid that you won't come back."

As Harry stood and went to Ginny's side of the table, pulling her up and wrapping his arms around her, it occurred to him that he would be late. He didn't, at that moment, care.


	3. In which there is no forethought

****When Harry arrived in McGonagall's office, he was surprised to find that she wasn't there. He had been nervous about being late his own self—Ginny had taken away the twenty minutes he had been counting on to get him to Hogwarts early. Hermione had met he and Ron at the entrance, still sullen about the whole ordeal. Ron continued prodding her in a frustrating and relentless manner when the pair followed him through the door to the headmistress's office.

"You understand what this means, don't you?"

"Yeah, 'Mione," Ron said, his exasperation finally leaking through the front of optimism he had been putting up. "Harry's gonna get to know Dumbledore, maybe McGonagall too. We're gonna get to see all the Order members as kids, probably. It's going to be a right great time, I wager—"

"The answer you were looking for," she said angrily, "is _no, Hermione, I have no idea of the implications—_"

"No, it wasn't! I don't talk like that," Ron said, and Harry rolled his eyes as Hermione gave a snort of laughter, stepping away from Ron and standing next to Harry.

"Professor McGonagall?" Harry called, peering around. It seemed, though, that besides the three of them, the only other occupants of the office were the portraits. Dumbledore seemed to have been roused from a nap, and blinked at Harry from across the room.

"Ah, Harry," called the portrait with a smile. "Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger—or is it Ms. Weasley by now?"

Hermione and Ron both blushed furiously, the former crying, "hardly!" whilst the latter murmured, "not yet, Professor."

"Do you know where McGonagall is, Professor?" asked Harry of the portrait.

"Hm," Dumbledore responded,"if you'll be so kind as to wait a moment..." Then he disappeared out of the left side of the frame, in the general direction of the door Harry assumed belonged to the headmistress's private quarters. Harry sighed, and dropped into a chair, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

"I wonder what's keeping her," he murmured. Ron shrugged. Hermione sighed.  


* * *

"Minerva, my dear," called the portrait into the dark room once he arrived in the frame that hung beside her armoire. He always preferred this portrait to the one that hung in her office. The scenery was much nicer. The Board of Governors commissioned the portraits that hung in the main office, and his portrait was filled with a bunch of stuffy books he had never liked in life and an apparently lifeless dog sitting beside the leather armchair. The portrait in Minerva's room was filled with colors, and had a broad window that looked out on the part of Scotland that she loved best. A bowl of sherbet lemons sat on a side table, and a cat perched on the windowsill that flicked its tail, as though contemplating the landscape. She had commissioned it herself, and was so much more his style as to be absurd. No one knew him quite like she did.

"_Of course_," _he had remarked upon entering into the frame for the first time,_ "_you _would_ paint me as a cat person."  
_

"_You certainly don't prefer dogs."_

"_Oh, Minerva," he had said with a smile, "you know that cats have always been my weakness." She had cried then, he remembered, the first of a handful of nights during which he would upset her without having meant to._

"Minerva," he called a little louder, "dear, are you awake?"

He heard rummaging around in the room, and then the lights turned on, revealing the headmistress sitting up in bed. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her hair in a sloppy plait down her back as she moved from the bed and made to stand. "Yes, Albus. What is it?"

"Do you have the time?"

"Do I have the—you woke me to ask me the—_oh_."

"Yes, it seems Mr. Potter and company have arrived."

"Merlin, I completely forgot..." she said as a hand flew to her hair and she began storming around the room. The portrait's eyes narrowed as she reached to grab a set of dark robes from an armchair and her hand trembled visibly. He considered suggesting that she ready herself magically, but before he could she had fallen into the chair, the robes clutched tightly in her pale hands. Her eyes were startlingly bright without the bulwark of glasses. "Tell them to come back tomorrow, Albus."

She sighed, placing her elbow on the table and her face in her hand.

"My dear..."

"Do it," she snapped.

He disappeared through the side of his frame.  


* * *

When Dumbledore reentered the office, Harry immediately bolted to his feet. "Well?" he queried impatiently, one hand running absently through his dark hair. Minerva's words occurred to him belatedly: _he doesn't like talking to you in this manner._ Harry never would have spoken to him so abruptly in life.

"Professor McGonagall was called away by the Ministry. She sends her regrets, and promises to meet the three of you tomorrow instead."

It was just one day, and Harry knew it. One stupid day. Twenty-four hours. But he had been so terribly excited about finally knowing something, about finally understanding the largest enigma of his history. The brief moments he had spent with Dumbledore in King's Cross—or the limbo resembling King's Cross—in between his two lives had shed light on many things. Dumbledore himself had been elucidated, in a way, but Harry felt as though there was so much more, _so_ much more that he needed to understand. Part of him felt that, if he understood Dumbledore, he might finally understand himself. Perhaps he'd even understand everything that had happened—why so many people had needed to die—

"Thanks, sir. C'mon, mate," Ron said, reaching over to grab Harry's arm and gently usher him out the door when his friend began to look somewhat... brooding. Hermione let out something like a sigh of relief when Harry stood, but the sound quickly became one of dismay as he darted toward the pensieve where it stood in the corner, still teeming with memories like a school of silvery fish.

A mixture of curiosity, grief, and the youthful impetuousness that had so often seized him in his younger years overcame him, spurring his impatience onward as he stepped swiftly toward the pensieve.

"Coming?" he asked to Ron and Hermione, both of whom hesitated.

"Harry, I don't think that this is a good idea," Hermione cautioned, looking to both Ron and Dumbledore's portrait for back-up. Dumbledore, however, had vanished from his frame, and Ron seemed to be teetering indecisively between backing his best friend and his girlfriend.

"If she was going to show them to us anyway..."

"Come on, then!" Harry exclaimed, and Ron went to his side just in time to enter into the pensieve together. Hermione glanced around the room, as though a teacher would emerge in stop them. However, none came.

"Boys can be so _stupid_," she cried exasperatedly before following Ron and Harry.


	4. In which there is a riddle

The world that materialized around them was at once familiar and strange. It took but a moment for all three to recognize it as the Great Hall. There was no mistaking that. However, bits and pieces were foreign—the chairs were different. The wall tapestries weren't the same. Most noticeably, though, the students's robes were thicker, cruder, antiquated. Almost every girl had their hair shorn short or else pulled up and twisted this way and that to give that illusion. The men and boys wore their hair short, likewise, save for the vibrant auburn hair of the deputy headmaster, which was worn rebelliously to his shoulders. He looked like a flower-child who had lost his era.

It took Harry a moment to recognize the man as Dumbledore. He was decades younger, and his hair hadn't even begun to silver. His eyes were light and bright as ever, and no wrinkles marred the pale skin of his face as he stared into the distance, nodding his head as though he were listening to Headmaster Dippet beside him.

"Blimey," Ron said, "that's Dumbledore!"

"He looks so young," Harry replied, a little dumbly. "He looks to be, what? Thirty?"

"These are McGonagall's memories," Hermione said, coming to stand beside Ron. She looked distinctly unhappy about the situation, but that she was willing to volunteer information heartened both Harry and Ron. "She was born in the... twenties, I think. Dumbledore nearly forty years prior. At youngest he's nearing sixty."

"Sixty! But his hair—" Ron was about to comment on how very _red_ Dumbledore's hair was when Hermione clucked her tongue in the manner they had taken to understand meant _focus_.

"For a wizard such as Dumbledore, he's barely middle-aged. _Anyway, w_e have to find McGonagall, or the memory will dissolve and leave us behind," Hermione interjected, stepping back to peer around the great hall. Harry and Ron did the same. It took them several moments to spot her, and even as Hermione pointed and began to follow a girl with a peculiarly long black ponytail as she exited the Great Hall in a hurry, Harry wasn't sure it _was_ her.

As the trio hurried after them out into the hallway, there was no doubting her voice. "If you _ever_ touch me again—" it was classic McGonagall. She stood with her back against a wall, facing Harry, Ron, and Hermione, whilst a dark-haired boy faced her.

"You'll what? Frankly, your threats wear thin," said the boy, and Harry at once knew whom it was.

"No," he whispered, too surprised to do anything but stand still. Hermione touched his arm with concern, following his gaze to the back of the boy's head.

"Harry, what is it?" Hermione asked. But Harry was too consumed by the moment to respond.

The boy approached the young McGonagall until he was uncomfortably close, his breath stirring the dark hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. "Don't lie to me. You enjoy my attentions."

"Like hell," she spat, vintage McGonagall, staring at the boy as though he were the very scum beneath her fingernails. "If you touch me again, I was going to say, I may vomit. Actually, the very thought makes me want to wretch, so it would be much appreciated if you could _get_ _away_ _from me_." McGonagall moved to push past him, but even as she did his wand was at her throat. Ron gasped, and Hermione peered around, looking to see if anyone would notice, but the whole school was in the Great Hall for the meal. Even if someone had been around to notice the squabble, the boy had cornered her in a rather secluded alcove of the hallway. Though the boy had his want pressed against her throat, McGonagall merely stiffened. She looked neither startled nor particularly uncomfortable, simply disdainful.

"I'm not to be trifled with, Minerva. I thought I'd taught you that when I—"

"It was not quite so memorable an event as you imagine." she snapped. For some reason, her words seemed to light a fire in the boy. He removed his wand from her throat and flourished it in a deep movement, murmuring, "_cruc—_"

Before he could finish, however, McGonagall had drawn her wand and flicked her wrist, wordlessly casting his wand flying from his hand. He snarled, and turned to retrieve it, but someone had already caught it.

"_Harry_," pressed Hermione, "what _is_ it?"

"Missing something?" queried Dumbledore, twirling the wand between his fingers. His pale eyes glinted dangerously over his half-moon spectacles, even as he extended his hand and offered the wand to the boy.

"It slipped from my hand," Tom Riddle told the Professor smoothly. "I can be so clumsy sometimes."


	5. In which a promise is made

**_A/N_**_: Thanks for the reviews! I'm trying to respond to everybody, but in case I don't... thanks, all! This is the first of the memories, though by no means the last. Also this would be taking place in her seventh year, though I don't think I explicitly say.  
_

* * *

"Indeed," Dumbledore responded. "Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Riddle. Miss McGonagall, may I borrow you for a few moments?"

"Of course, sir." she answered, her voice remarkably smooth for someone who had almost had the cruciatus curse placed upon them. Tom nodded to McGonagall before turning to face Dumbledore and giving him what could only be construed as a mocking bow.

If Harry had any doubts before, they were allayed by Tom's expression; it was not only a face Harry recognized from the memories of Dumbledore's he had seen, but the look in his eyes was the very same Harry had seen every instance Voldemort had looked upon Albus Dumbledore. Hermione shuddered beside him. "That's Tom Riddle," she said, unnecessarily. Ron gulped.

"I didn't know McGonagall knew him."

"Me either," Harry answered.

The moment Tom Riddle disappeared into the Great Hall, Minerva seemed to deflate. Her hands shook slightly as she tucked her hair behind her ears. "Thank you, Professor." she said quietly, offering a tight-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. Dumbledore shook his head and gestured down the hallway. She followed; Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed her.

They arrived in the transfiguration classroom, and after Hermione explained to Ron that Dumbledore had been the Transfiguration professor prior to McGonagall, settled into seats in the back of the classroom. Dumbledore turned to face Minerva, his hand waving vaguely in the air. "Silencing spell," Hermione whispered.

"Are you quite all right, Miss McGonagall?"

"Fine, thank you."

"Would you like to tell me why Mr. Riddle has begun harassing you again?"

"I have the means to get him into trouble... again, sir."

Dumbledore's face brightened. "You told the headmaster about his... transgression against you?"

"Certainly not!" she exclaimed, shaking her head vehemently. "We've already had this discussion. I will not be telling anybody. That you happened to weasel—"

"Weasel!"

"—it out of me is immaterial." She folded her arms across her chest. "A muggle-born first year came to me yesterday morning. He'd been beaten to a pulp. Said some older students had gotten at him, calling him _mudblood_. He wouldn't tell me who it was, he was too scared—I know it was Tom, though. I'm certain of it."

"My dear," Dumbledore said, his brow deeply furrowed as he regarded the young McGonagall. "_How_ could you know?"

"I know his handiwork," she responded grimly, and Harry was surprised to see that her eyes shone, as though wet with unshed tears. Dumbledore merely nodded, and the pair stood in silence, looking solemn.

"If _you_ were willing to come forth..."

"I would have the whole of the school looking at me like you are right now. Pity isn't a good look for anybody, Albus."

"Minerva," murmured the Professor. "Tom Riddle is an increasingly dangerous young man. Would you but speak against him to the Headmaster, something could be done about him."

"Albus?" Ron said, brow raised. "Minerva? Little chummy, aren't they?"

"You could speak," Minerva said, a little crossly. "Tell the Headmaster that you don't trust him. That an unnamed student came to you—"

"I've explained this to you before, my dear. The Headmaster is quite taken by Mr. Riddle. Armando and I have never been on the best of terms to begin with—after I suggested that it was Tom behind the Chamber of Secrets opening and the accusation apparently being fallacious, it will seem as though I'm grasping at straws. As though I have a personal vendetta against the boy."

"What if he thinks the same of me?"

"I doubt he could," Dumbledore responded, brow furrowing. "Pardon my flattery, but you happen to be the brightest student since myself, not to mention the fact that you have much of the staff wrapped around your finger... But I digress. I cannot stress how important it could be for you to defame Mr. Riddle."

"You know I'd love to help you," she answered, looking down, "but I simply can't. I'm sorry, Albus; I'm not quite strong enough."

Dumbledore sighed, reaching one hand up to brush his thumb tenderly across McGonagall's cheek, eliciting a jaw-drop from Ron. "Do not apologize. Not ever. I can think of no other with bravery to match yours." His hand trailed down to her chin, and he lifted her downcast face to meet her eyes, staring at her silently for a moment as Ron squawked in protest. Dumbledore then leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead.

"What 'xactly is going on here?" Ron exclaimed, looking at the other two. "I mean, it's not just me, is it? They're..."

"A little 'chummy'," Hermione replied with a nod, borrowing Ron's wording and staring at the pair as they moved to embrace, McGonagall taking a shuddering breath. "It does make you wonder..."

"I'm more curious about what happened to McGonagall," Harry interjected, though, admittedly, the familiarity with which Professor Dumbledore spoke to his then-pupil was intriguing enough. The love and veneration he had for Minerva McGonagall, however, had him more concerned about her mysterious relationship with Tom Riddle. If whatever it was had been enough to impact her teenage self so greatly, Harry presumed that it still haunted her. The idea that both McGonagall and Dumbledore had had something that could have incriminated Tom Riddle so young, that could have perhaps circumvented the entire war by putting him at the very least under surveillance before any serious damage could be done made Harry's hands clench into fists.

Dumbledore reached a hand up to cup her cheek gently, his thumb stroking her pale skin. It briefly crossed Harry's mind that Ron's gossip had been right—McGonagall _had_ been a good-looking girl. He could hardly see the stern, black-swathed professor she would become in her face. Her stern features were softened by her youth and twinges of baby fat in her cheeks. Her bone structure was dainty and fine, her eyes a lovely almond shape that curved down slightly toward the outside. Dark lashes framed the bright green of her eyes, which the square spectacles should donned in the future did not yet hide. Her hair was dark, dark black. It hung, long and sleek, down her back.

Perhaps, he thought a little bitterly, Dumbledore had been so enamored of _Minerva_ that he hadn't used her as he had used Harry. His whole life, Dumbledore had moved him like a chess piece—he had no doubt that his former Headmaster had directed other Order members in such a manner as well. He _knew_ that Dumbledore had used Snape much in the same way. Perhaps he had cared so greatly for McGonagall that he had let this chance to stop the Dark Lord from rising slip through his fingers—the thought made Harry's blood boil. He was about to voice the thought to his friends when Dumbledore and McGonagall pulled away, the former saying, "you do, however, understand that I must report Mr. Riddle's intent to use an unforgivable curse on you, correct?"

"I was hoping you hadn't heard that bit."

"I respect your desire for privacy, and understand your displeasure at the thought of sharing your experience with anybody else. I know that it was a deeply unpleasant ordeal, and that it has left its scars. _However_, I cannot let him go unpunished, especially as his antics grow increasingly more troublesome. What he did to you was, is, and ever will be unforgivable—I know that you are beyond revenge; would that I could say the same of myself... but can you allow him to torment other students? Mere children who haven't your strength of will and character? Can you stand by, knowing that you can stop him?"

Minerva's face had grown darker and darker as he spoke, her lips drawn into a tight, thin line that all three former Gryffindors sitting in the classroom recognized well. Her fingers twitched agitatedly at her sides, and for a second Harry thought she would even go for her wand. The moment seemed to pass, though her apparent fury did not subside. Instead of grabbing for her wand, she lifted her hand and slapped her Professor almost brusquely across the face. The _smack_ resounded throughout the room, and Dumbledore stared dumbly at her as she stepped away from him.

Harry knew that Dumbledore was unfathomably powerful. In that moment, however, he did not doubt McGonagall's ability to take him down had she but the inclination. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself, glaring at him with such malice that Ron shrunk back in his seat.

"Do _not_ call into question my honor," she spat, "do _not_ treat me as a means to your end. I _will not_ be used as a chess piece by you, Albus Dumbledore. Most importantly, _do not_ pretend to _understand_ what I went or am going through. You haven't the slightest idea." Dumbledore's lips moved several times, as though he would respond, but before he could she continued: "if you must go to the Headmaster, let me know when, and I will accompany you. I can see that you're trying to give me the impression that I have a choice, which I—to an extent—appreciate. But do not misapprehend me: I know when I'm being manipulated, especially by you. Don't do it again." She sniffed, her chin jutting outward and up in a motion of prim defiance, her eyes blazing as she turned away from him and began toward the door.

"Minerva, my dear," called Dumbledore quietly, his face resigned. He looked more apologetic than Harry could ever remember, save perhaps the moments of insanity in the caves as they sought the horcrux. She turned to face him, giving nothing away through her expression. "I can go without you. I do not wish to force your hand, to speak..."

"You'll be laughed out of the office," she returned, a little gentler, though forgiveness was clearly not forthcoming. "I'm angry at you. It doesn't mean I don't—"

"I know," Dumbledore answered, and McGonagall nodded in return. As she left the room, the memory began to fade around the trio and the strange image of a chastened Dumbledore.


	6. In which there is baggage

**_A/N: _**_Thank you so much for the overwhelmingly positive response. Keep the reviews coming, dearies. I'm still trying to respond to everybody, but I'm a procrastinator and also generally inefficient. This is set in Minerva's fifth year.  


* * *

_The next memory that materialized around them was instantly recognizable as being older than the one previous. McGonagall wasn't nearly as difficult to find this time—she stood right before them, her back to them. It seemed that her hair had gone through phases. Though it was in the memory and had always been the darkest of blacks, the bun she wore when Harry knew her had apparently evolved from the ponytail she wore in the memory they had just seen. In this memory, her hair hung, long and sleek, down her back. That alone was a strange sight as the trio got their bearings: Minerva McGonagall with her hair down. What was even stranger was watching her toss her hair over her shoulder and let out a startlingly girlish giggle. As they got closer, it became clear that the object of her apparent flirtation was none other than Tom Riddle.

"Pish-posh," Minerva was saying as the trio came into earshot, "I don't believe it for a second."

"I _can_ do those spells," Tom insisted, a lopsided grin on his face. He was almost handsome, Hermione thought, this early in his life. Something about him was still off, though, something wrathful tucked in the shadowy places between his words.

"A demonstration?" Minerva prompted, as Tom stepped a little nearer to her, looking down his nose at her with a smug smile on his face, one hand coming to rest under her chin as Ron shuddered beside Hermione. Tom leaned forward so that his lips were almost touching McGonagall's ear.

"I know the perfect place," he murmured, the young Riddle's hand coming to rest on her hip whilst the other pushed a tress of hair behind her ear. "Nice and private."

"Is anyone else—"

"Disturbed?" Ron supplied for Harry, though the latter had a feeling based on his best friend's expression that there was a little more to it than that—it _was_ a little off-putting to see their stern, caustic Professor flouncing and flirting like a school girl, but primarily, Harry couldn't help but be doubly disturbed by the fact that she did it _well_. Not only did she seem to have Tom wrapped around her finger, but Hermione kept giving Ron furtive glances, as he seemed unable to keep from drooling, if not only subtly.

"I was going to say confused," Harry amended.

"The same," interjected Hermione, elbowing Ron in the side as he leaned forward almost imperceptibly as Tom made to kiss McGonagall.

She, however, stayed blithely out of his reach, his lips not quite touching hers as she placed her palms against his chest and pushed him very gently away. "Maybe later," she said sweetly.

"Later, Minerva?" Tom asked, a hint of whining in his voice; Harry couldn't decide if it was only due to his greater understanding of what Tom would became that he noted a flash to his eyes, a hint of anger beneath the apparently unthreatening words.

"Oh, Tom," she said with another giggle, stepping away from him and brushing her hair over her shoulder once more. "You'll have to buy me dinner first. Anyway, I'm late for my meeting with Professor Dumbledore." Then she darted off, Tom having smiled slightly and waved, though the instant her back was turned his visage darkened instantly. There was no amusement in his eyes, no lingering glow left in the wake of her apparently desirable company, nothing. He was angry, that much was very, very clear to the trio as they turned away from him and followed McGonagall away from the grounds and back toward the school. Though many things about McGonagall appeared to have changed over time, her walk was still brisk and businesslike as ever, and the trio had to hurry to keep up.

"Fascinating though this is," Hermione said through gritted teeth, "I think we should be leaving. McGonagall could come back from her meeting at any moment, and I doubt that these were the memories she wanted us to see."

"Why else would she have them in her pensieve, Hermione? Doesn't make any sense." Ron answered.

"Ronald, honestly—Harry wanted to know about Dumbledore. These are all about _McGonagall_, and I worry we're going to find something too personal, something she _really_ wouldn't want us to know..."

"Let's just keep on," Harry said with a nod, "we're already here. Might as well wait 'til we run out of memories or McGonagall shows up and yanks us out. I, for one, really want to know what happened."

Hermione sighed loudly, but Harry knew she wouldn't leave. Not only did he know that she wouldn't leave him, but he knew that she wouldn't leave a somewhat smitten Ron to drool after the young McGonagall without her to elbow him sharply in the ribs every now and then. Furthermore, Harry wasn't sure the other two had ever used a pensieve. He didn't know if Hermione would know exactly how to get out by herself anyway. They fell quiet as they followed McGonagall into what they recognized as her own office, but knew it to be Dumbledore's.

"Good afternoon, Miss McGonagall," Dumbledore greeted from behind his desk, not bothering to look up from his book as she sat in the chair on the other side of his desk.

Minerva sighed. "I _suppose_."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Tom Riddle has been after me again." She pulled at the edges of her skirt.

"You do realize that encouraging him as you do—"

"I do no such thing! I never lay a hand on the boy unless I'm pushing him away. I don't ask him to spend time together. I avoid him whenever possible."

"That may be true. But the few times I have seen you together, you are not exactly... frigid, my dear."

She sniffed. "I'm merely being polite."

"Yes?" Dumbledore inquired with a rather undignified snort of laughter.

"I confess," Minerva said more quietly, her words accompanied by a roll of her eyes, "I do find it nice to be...liked. But I certainly don't accept his unwelcome advances."

"Naturally, naturally," Dumbledore answered, looking a little reproachful as he peered back down at the book in his lap. "I would just advise you to be cautious. Mr. Riddle is not so benign as he would seem."

"I know you theories," Minerva answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I just don't see it. Not that I think Hagrid opened the Chamber, mind you... I just don't think it was Tom."

"I am aware," sighed the transfiguration Professor, who looked even younger than he had in the other memory. "I simply wish you would mind me."

"I can handle myself, thank you very much, Professor." Harry had to smile a little. In moments, she was every bit the hard-nosed, no-nonsense Professor he knew and loved.

"I do believe you can. Still, it would be best if you made your disinterest very clear to Mr. Riddle, rather than paint it in grey as you have thus far."

"I suppose."

"Besides," Dumbledore said as he closed his book with a slight smile and rose to his feet. "I do doubt that there is any shortage of suitors to keep you occupied." McGonagall stood too, placing her schoolbag on the floor and withdrawing her wand.

"Yes, because I have such an indefinable allure," she quipped with a wry smirk.

"Not that indefinable," responded her Professor, seriously. Minerva looked up at him, surprised, her mouth hanging open a little. For a moment, they just stood, face to face, Dumbledore solemn and Minerva startled. Despite Ron's apparent interest in the young McGonagall, he seemed acutely uneasy when Dumbledore and she interacted in such a manner. Admittedly, the first time they had seen them, they had interacted in a strangely intimate manner, and again Harry had the strange sense that there was something more between them. But no, certainly not—for one, Dumbledore was her teacher. For another, they most assuredly hadn't been together when Harry, Hermione, and Ron were alive—certainly someone would have noticed.

McGonagall took a step nearer to Dumbledore, and he to her. His hand twitched at his side, as though he were going to reach for her, going to touch her, pull her closer. Instead, he cleared his throat. "Anyway, about your Animagus studies..." Dumbledore murmured, blinking as the memory swirled away from them.

* * *

"Minerva..."

"Go away."

"If you spoke of whatever is ailing you, it would, perhaps, help..."

"_Go away!_" she thundered, springing from the chair that she hadn't left since he had first delivered the news to the trio that she wouldn't be joining them until the following week. She stood before his portrait, trembling slightly in what he interpreted alternately as rage and something more visceral. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her eyes shone brightly beneath her glasses. With her head lifted in defiance so that she practically had to look down her nose to peer at his portrait, the portrait couldn't help but smile. In life, Albus would have relented. In life, he would have surrendered, calmed her, and spent the remainder of the day explaining to her all of the very many reasons that he admired and adored her strength, her obstinacy, her mettle, and all of the very many reasons and ways it drove him crazy.

In death, in the portrait, he could do naught but stare at her furious form for the few moments before she calmed slightly, the shaking ceasing as she sat down on the edge of her bed. "I find it far more difficult," she began, pausing to inhale deeply, "difficult to deal with the less pleasant of my memories than I had anticipated." She choked out a laugh; it was a thin, rusty sound that clattered emptily in the quietude of her bedroom.

"I spent so long quashing certain things from my mind that I forgot... The worst of—of it all, truly, with Tom. And I told the story a handful of times. To you, to the headmaster, later to others... It almost became a story. I could pretend it was something I had made up, that it was words and not reality. I forgot," she said, "what it was like to live it."

"I am sorry, my dear."

She stared blankly at him for several moments before standing and turning toward the bathroom.

"I feel filthy," she said, so quietly that he almost missed it. He heard the water of the shower after she disappeared, and after a few beats began to make his way back to the office.


	7. In which questions are answered

**_A/N:_** _So this is a little complicated, a lot revealing, and very poorly written/structured. I've been toying with this for weeks. I can't seem to get it right- it's very serious subject matter, and I don't want to make it seem like it's not... however, this is the best I can come up with, and I didn't want to keep ya'll waiting any longer. So here you go: a memory within a memory.

* * *

_

There was something different in the air the moment their feet met the ground. Harry felt his arms prickle, the hair of his neck stand on end, and he peered around a little frantically, although he did not altogether know why. They were in the Forbidden Forest, and it was dark. Those two details were all Harry could ascertain for certain as he glanced around—something about the memory was tumultuous, volatile, and it took longer to sort itself out than any Harry had been in before. He heard Ron say something behind him, but didn't comprehend exactly what it was, as he was too busy attempting to get his bearings to ask him to repeat it.

McGonagall, he realized eventually, was standing alone in the forest, visible from the side as she buttoned up her white shirt. Harry's brow furrowed as the neared. She adjusted the hem of her skirt, which was torn up one side almost to disrepair, but with a flick of her wand she managed to make it hold a little impossibly. Her face was almost alarmingly blank, the trio saw, as they got closer still. Though it was nighttime and Minerva was pale anyway, that she looked a little ashen and a lot drawn was unmistakable. Her lipstick was smeared around her lips, and she seemed to notice, lifting an arm to wipe her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt; the white was marred by leaves and bits of bramble, as though it had previously been lying on the Forest floor. It was only when she bent to retrieve her robes from where they sat on the ground a foot away that her hand gave way to a quiver. She snatched the article of clothing from the ground, grabbing the shaking appendage with her other hand, as though to quell the tremble.

She flung the robes over her shoulders, cringing when they landed heavily against her neck. As she stretched, a string of small bruises became clear, little pearls of black-and-blue like finger prints against her too-pale skin. Ron and Harry kept looking between each other, concerned and befuddled, whilst Hermione stood silently behind them, her arms wrapped around herself, her teeth biting into her lower lip. Minerva took a shuddering breath and began to walk woodenly toward the school. The trio stood motionless, watching her mussed hair swing back and forth down her back for a few moments. It was only then—with her back to them—that they noticed the blood staining the bottom of her skirt.

"Blimey," Ron whispered as the three began to follow her. No one answered. They trailed her in silence until she reached the edge of the Forest. She continued on past Hagrid's hut, and almost immediately a figure appeared in the distance. McGonagall, however, seem not to be paying attention, and even as the figure became more and more defined, closer and closer, she did not look up until she had run into him.

"Miss McGonagall!" Dumbledore exclaimed, startled as Minerva toppled over. He managed to catch both of her wrists at the last minute, keeping her from falling. The instant she stood, however, she shrank away from him, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

"Sorry, sir," she murmured, making like she would step past him, but before she could quite get away, he had reached for her arm, holding her in place as he moved to stand before her once again.

"You are aware it is long after hours? That you ought to be in bed?"

"Yes, sir. I fell asleep. I'm sorry. But I'm heading back to the dormitory now," she responded, her voice strangely level, her response almost cursory. Dumbledore too seemed to sense the strangeness, and his mouth opened to respond, but before he could speak he noticed her appearance—her face, stricken, pale; her eyes, downcast; her hair was mussed, leaves mixed in amidst the black in places; her robes were sloppily done, and as they weren't closed he could see the tear running up her skirt, the dirt clinging to her shirt. His face seemed to darken.

"I do not believe that for one instant."

"I'm heading back to my dormitory now, it won't happen again."

"Minerva, what happened?"

"I'm heading back to my dormitory _now—_"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm heading back to my—"

"_Minerva_?"

"Heading back to..."

"My dear..."

"...my... dormitory..." her words grew quieter and quieter until she fell completely silent, her mouth hanging open slightly as though she had just said something awful. She began to shake in Dumbledore's grasp, and the professor reached out concernedly, as though he would draw her to him, but she pushed him violently away. In her hastiness, she tripped and fell backward onto the ground, her whole body wracked with quivers and quakes. She seemed to shrink into herself, curling her knees into her body and her arms into her chest until she seemed almost impossibly small, especially in contrast to the castle looming behind her.

"Minerva," Dumbledore croaked, crouching down and kneeling before her. He made to reach out to her, but seemed to think better of it, and thus merely sat silently before her shuddering form, waiting for some sign that it would be all right to act. Her sobs, though they rocked her whole body, were tearless. "My dear..." no other words seemed forthcoming. He settled into the grass before her, sitting indian style and looking rather heartbroken as he watched the young McGonagall break.

It took about ten minutes for her to regain some semblance of composure, at which time she sat on her knees across from Dumbledore, staring blankly at some point over his shoulder. "I apologize for my behavior, Professor."

"Minerva," he said, "what _happened_?"

"I'm very tired, sir. I'd just like to go to bed."

"Minerva McGonagall, you are wandering the grounds after hours. Your look as though—pardon—you were rolling around in the mud. You came from the direction of the Forbidden Forest. There is blood on your skirt. If you think for one moment that I'm going to allow you to _go to bed_ without an explanation, you are, quite frankly, out of your mind."

She didn't say anything in response. Instead, she simply stared at him, her green eyes wide, her lips drawn into a tight frown. She looked defeated, empty—it didn't even look as though she were searching for a response. Harry had to wonder if she had heard him at all. After a few moments, Dumbledore extended his hand and stood up. McGonagall stared at it for several moments before she reached out and placed a remarkably steady hand in his. He pulled her gingerly to her feet, and slowly pulled her to him. Dumbledore folded her in a tight embrace, and at this juncture, it seemed as though the fight had so thoroughly gone out of her that, though the panic was briefly present on her face, she resigned and fell heavily against his chest. After a moment, Dumbledore spun them on the spot and apparated away.

The trio found themselves transplanted into what they assumed to be Dumbledore's private quarters as well. Hermione explained, after Ron announced his inevitable confusion, that because McGonagall would have had no memory of anywhere she hadn't been, they had automatically followed with her—as though the moments were two separate memories.

"Sit down, dear," murmured the Professor, relinquishing his grasp on Minerva as he guided her to a plush couch in front of the fire.

"I shouldn't be here," she barely whispered. Dumbledore waved one hand in dismissal of her statement.

"I have it on good authority that your head of house does not mind."

She nodded silently, sinking back into the couch and pulling her knees up against her chest. Dumbledore moved to place a metal tea kettle over the fire, thereafter busying himself with getting a pair of tea cups in order on the mantle. Silence reigned, and as the trio settled on the floor, not a one of them could think of anything to say. All were riveted, and if not riveted, troubled by the sight of Minerva McGonagall, who had one hundred times over proved herself to be fiercest of the fierce, a shattered, shivering mess, huddled on her Professor's couch. The only noises were the tinkling of tea cups and the sound of crackling flames. Eventually Dumbledore poured the tea, taking one to Minerva and one to himself as he sat on the couch beside her.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You must tell me what happened."

"I can't."

"You are not well, my dear."

"I'm fine."

"You are lying."

"Yes."

"Then—"

"No."

Dumbledore stared at her, but Minerva merely sniffed and turned to face the fire, taking a slow sip of the tea had provided. "May I please return to my dormitory?" In the wake of her question, there was only silence. Dumbledore took a few sips of his tea.

"I can find out if any other students were out past curfew, you know."

Minerva paled slightly, but did not answer.

"Even if there are too many to draw any conclusions, it will be all too easy for me to question them and ascertain the truth." Dumbledore's words had risen in intensity, and leaned nearer to Minerva, who seemed to recede only further into herself. "Will I find that Tom Riddle was amongst the rule-breakers?"

"Professor," she croaked, "please..."

"_What _did Mr. Riddle do, Minerva?" he asked, his voice quiet, but the volume did not belie his seriousness. Harry could see Dumbledore's remarkably omniscient eyes jumping from Minerva's eyes to her clothes, to her hair, drawing conclusions, growing more and more worried with every passing moment.

"I... can't. I can't."

"_Please_," Dumbledore murmured, placing one willowy hand over her much smaller ones where they clasped the teacup. "Let me help you, my dearest Minerva..."

"I just went to Professor Binns's classroom to ask a question..."

* * *

_Minerva walked into the Professor's classroom, and was surprised to find that he wasn't there. She had been sure that he had said he would be, if there were any questions, and she had a good long list of questions she desperately needed him to answer before she even attempted to write the essay he wanted for the following day. She was about to leave in a huff when Tom Riddle also entered the classroom._

"_Oh, Minerva. Just the girl I wanted to see."_

"_Whatever for?" she asked, recalling Dumbledore's recent advice that she oughtn't lead him on. Even if she didn't quite think he posed the threat that her Professor seemed to, she did recognize that it was hardly fair of her to flirt with no intention of following through. It was silly, and irresponsible—two things which she rarely was._

"_No reason in particular. I simply like to see you."_

_She didn't have an answer. Usually she would have preened a bit at the comment. Instead, she said, "Professor Binns isn't here. We'll have to come back later."_

_Tom grinned, peering around as though he were making sure that she was telling the truth. He ran a hand through his sleek, dark hair, and took a few swift steps nearer to her. "We could utilize his classroom in his absence... You could _tutor _me." The smile following, that struck her as oddly threatening, made it very obvious that the subject he wished to be tutored in was not within the approved curriculum._

"_Actually, I should be going..." she responded, smiling apologetically and shrugging her shoulders as she started toward the door. As she passed him, however, she heard him mutter something, and her wand clattered to the ground. She wheeled on him, her eyes narrowed as Dumbledore's words rattled around in her head. "Don't be foolish, Tom. I just came to ask Professor Binns a question. I'll see you later."_

"_Or you could see me now," Tom answered, stepping nearer toward her. She snorted, ignoring the pitter-patter of her heart in her chest as she leaned down to retrieve her wand. Before she could, however, he had moved forward and stepped on it, holding it firmly in place. _

"_What _is_ the meaning of this?"_

"_I should think it was very clear," he said, kicking her wand across the classroom and stepping closer to her. She turned and began to walk briskly toward the door, but by the time her hand touched the doorknob she knew he had locked it, and regardless he had shoved her gently against the door so that she was facing him as he continued. "I should think that _I_ have been very clear so far as my intentions are concerned."_

_Minerva did not show any of the panic she felt welling within her. She simply frowned at him "You have. I should have told you, long ago—I'm not interested, Tom. We're best as friends. I'm sorry."_

_Tom chuckled, an oily, slimy sound that seemed to ooze out of his throat, rubbing against her face as he exhaled. "I haven't exactly asked for your input, have I? I can't help but find you attractive, Minerva. You're not much to look at, it's true, but something about your spirit just makes me..." he trailed off, his pale eyes rolling upward pensively before he completed the phrase: "it just makes me want to break you."_

"_Tom, I—"_

_Tom leaned forward to press his lips against hers, and it didn't take more than a split second for Minerva to slap him soundly across the face, shoving his chest violently with her hands as she turned and reached for the still locked doorknob. "Accio wa—" she tried, but before she could finish, Tom had slapped her right back, and the shock sent her reeling. She reached a hand up to touch her cheek, but he grabbed her wrist and pinned it against the wall, likewise pressing her body against the wood with his own, his breath hot against her ear as she turned her face away from him._

"_Get the hell off of me, or I swear you'll regret it," she hissed, shoving him once more, but he was too strong, and her every attempt to shed him was met with a more forceful shove in response._

"_Do keep talking, I find your accent most enticing," Tom answered, his lips covering every inch of her neck as she squirmed against the door._

"_Professor Binns will return."_

"_True," Tom answered, withdrawing somewhat. "Luckily, I planned ahead." He withdrew a small, silver broach fashioned in the shape of a snake from the pockets of his robes, and pressed it into her hand roughly. "Portkey," he whispered in her ear as she felt a tugging sensation about her navel, and landed unevenly on the ground of the Forbidden Forest. She collapsed onto the ground, and Tom fell on top of her. "Aren't you glad I'm so forward thinking?" he inquired._

"_You are the most vile, loathsome, disgusting person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing," she answered, knowing her voice was not nearly as strong as she would have liked. "You are _pathetic_."_

"_You wound me," he sneered. She reached up to shove him, claw at him, something, but with a hissed word from his lips she found herself bound to the ground as he began to undo the buttons of her shirt. _

"_In the real world, I would never touch you, and you know it—you had to disarm me to do anything—you're frightened of me, Tom Riddle, you fear that I can best you—"_

"_No woman could best me."_

"_I could. I can. If only you weren't so _frightened, _you infantile_—"

_"Enough," he snapped, but Minerva couldn't help but continue. She felt so much anger at being made so helpless, so much fury toward the _creature_ whom she should have seen as evil from the beginning—she was absolutely incensed at the thought that Dumbledore had seen what she had not, that she was able to be taken advantage of in such away—that she had allowed Riddle to best her—allowed him to take advantage of her—that she couldn't move, couldn't stop him—she certainly wouldn't cry, though, and the only thing keeping the tears at bay were her words, sharp and biting as the tumbled furiously from her mouth until Tom seemed to reach his breaking point. He reached up and grabbed her around the neck."You will listen to me. You will heed me," he seethed, squeezing her neck so that she could barely breath._

_And hour later, her eyes were still dry. She lay, naked and exposed, at Tom Riddle's foot as he adjusted his robes. She stared blankly up at him, trying not to think of the symbolism. _

"_That was disappointing," Tom said as he checked his watch. "I expected more from you. However, you should know that if you tell anyone of our...tryst, you won't survive long after. Anyway, despite your numerous shortcomings, you _are_ a vain little trollop... I shouldn't think you'd want people to know how easily you can be brought down. Evening." He dipped his head politely, and disappeared. After he had receded fully into the dark of the Forest, she found herself able to move again. She stood, ignoring the pain the riddled her body—she was covered in bruises, and the pain between her legs was nearly unbearable. But she would not cry. He had taken too much from her—she could not, would not allow him that final victory._


End file.
